by Ellen Byron
She texted back, “Yes!!!! Will do anything to get out of my head!! Even LatinBod!!”
*
Since the class on the schedule was BollyBod, Maggie’s fellow dancers were spared her clumsy samba steps. Sandy followed through with her warning that the routines would be high-impact cardio, and when the class was done, Maggie and Gaynell collapsed on benches, panting.
“I bet those routines got you out of your head,” Gaynell said between pants.
“My only thought was, ‘If I have an undisclosed heart condition, this is the class that’ll activate it,’” Maggie replied. She held up the towel that she’d used to wipe sweat off her face. “This is wet enough to wring out.”
Whitney, Bo’s ex, approached them. She’d also taken the class, but in typical Whitney fashion, looked as fresh postworkout as when she’d walked into the studio. “That was a nice little session,” she said, popping a mint into her mouth.
“Little?!” Gaynell and Maggie chorused. “How are you not a puddle?” Maggie added.
“I was a cheerleader in college. We trained ourselves not to perspire. Makes your makeup run.” Whitney took a seat next to Maggie. “I was so sorry to hear about your art studio fire.”
“Thanks. I miss teaching Xander. As soon as I find a temporary space, you’ll be the first person I call.”
“Wonderful. Ooo, you just reminded me. Xander finished a painting. I want to show it to you. It’s in the car. I’ll go get it.”
“I’ll walk out with you,” Gaynell said. Whitney popped up and jogged out the door. Gaynell rolled her eyes and mouthed, “How does she do it?” to Maggie. Then she followed after Whitney.
Sandy appeared in front of Maggie. “Did I hear you need studio space?” Maggie nodded. “Follow me.”
Maggie did as instructed, following Sandy down a narrow hall that opened onto a back alley. A small addition jutted out from the DanceBod building, and Sandy led Maggie inside. She found herself in an old wood-paneled office with a linoleum floor, windows on three sides, and a skylight. “I love it,” she enthused. “It’ll make a perfect studio until mine is repaired. How much can I pay you for rent?”
“Nothing.”
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious. I got such an amazing deal on this place, I can afford to be generous.”
“It had been empty forever before you moved in. I never did know who owned it.”
“A man out of Baton Rouge. He died, and his son took over the business. But he overextended and had to sell off a bunch of buildings at bargain prices. That’s the father and son over there.”
Sandy pointed to a dusty black-and-white photo in a dollar store frame hanging on a wall. A handsome man brimming with self-confidence posed next to a man who looked like a tenth-generation copy of him. “The son is not the father,” Maggie murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. I’ll take it. And I’ll find some way to thank you.”
“Not necessary. It’s my way of thanking you and Gopher for finding my little boy. And it’ll be nice having the company. It gets lonely here sometimes, just me and King Cake.”
“Well, I know a certain gentleman who’d like to fix that.”
Maggie flashed an impish grin, and Sandy blushed. “Oh, you stop,” she admonished. “But,” she added softly, “I might not mind that.”
Maggie smiled to herself. Rufus Durand, your lucky number just came up.
Sandy stayed behind to lock up the office, and Maggie returned to the studio, where Whitney was waiting for her. “Look,” Whitney said. “Xander tried a different approach this time.”
She handed her a painting. Maggie recognized it as the portrait of puppy Jasmine that Bo had shown her on his phone. Xander had completed it, but the happy energy the painting originally radiated was overwhelmed by a chaotic, abstract background. “What is this?” Maggie gestured to the mishmash of shapes and colors.
“He added a more contemporary touch to the painting.”
“Who told him to do that?”
“No one.”
Maggie knew Whitney was lying. “Chris did, didn’t he?” Maggie said, furious.
“Okay, fine, yes. Chris is blown away by Xander’s talent, and he thought this would make his work even more powerful.”
“Xander is seven. His work doesn’t need to be ‘powerful.’ It needs to be fun. And from his heart.”
Whitney snatched the painting back. “Chris was right. He told me not to tell you. He said you wouldn’t understand.”
“Did he say collectors gravitate more toward abstract art these days?” Whitney didn’t respond, and Maggie had her answer. “So he’s still trying to convince you to let him market your son.” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Whitney, you know how much I love Xander. I just want to protect him.”
“Are you saying I don’t? I’m his mother, for God’s sake!”
“I know. But I’m worried Chris is playing you.”
“Oh, so you think I’m some gullible, naïve victim.”
“Not at all. I think you’re a wonderful, loving mother who would do anything for her son. But Chris has changed since we were together. Something’s wrong with him. I don’t think he’s a good person anymore.”
“You know what, Maggie?” Whitney hissed. “I don’t care what you think. What happens to my son is between me and his father, and you have no say in it, and you wouldn’t even if you were Xander’s stepmom, which you’re not and probably never will be. You can forget about those art lessons. I’m going to a find a new teacher for Xander. We’re done with you.”
Whitney tucked her son’s painting under her arm and slammed out the front door of the dance studio, leaving behind a devastated Maggie.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For a moment, Maggie stood rooted to the floor, frozen by Whitney’s attack. Then she slowly walked out of the studio. She sat on the sidewalk curb and tried to regroup. She had a sudden, almost desperate longing to talk to Father Prit. She missed his warmth and kindness. But he was in Rome, “@VaticanCity,” as he tweeted, eagerly awaiting Midnight Mass with Pope Francis.
Maggie pulled out her cell phone and angrily punched in a number. “Hey,” Chris answered. He sounded surprised to hear from her.
“Leave. Xander. Alone.” Maggie spat out each word.
“Oh, that’s what this is about. I warned Whitney.”
“You mean you warned Whitney not to talk to anyone who might discourage her from ruining her son’s life.”
“Or save him from being trapped in a hick backwoods Southern town.” Now Chris was angry.
“Chris . . .” Maggie fought to keep her temper. “I know you’re hurting for money.”
“You think that’s what this is about? Wrong, Maggie. There was a clause in my contract with Steve guaranteeing me a payout in the event of termination. He may have been the one terminated, but it still counts.”
“Do the police know this?” Chris was silent. “Do the police know this?” Maggie repeated.
“Why do you keep asking me that?”
“They know you were having money problems. And they’re looking into it.”
“They think I killed Steve?” There was disbelief in his voice. “Do you?”
Now Maggie was silent.
“You do. Wow.”
“I didn’t, Chris. But I’m starting to wonder.”
“You know what? Just go to—” Furious, Chris then ended the call without even bothering to finish the sentence.
Maggie put away her phone and stared into space, overwhelmed by the one-two punch of her confrontations with Whitney and Chris.
“Seems like somebody besides me could use a nightcap.”
Maggie looked up to find Philip Charbonnet. She was surprised to see him outside the comfortable confines of his New Orleans life. “Hello.”
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said. “Care to join me at one of Pelican’s quaint establishments?” he asked.
Charbonnet held
out a hand. Maggie debated. The man was loathsome. But he could also provide some valuable insight into the machinations of his twisted family. She took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go to Junie’s,” she said with her best fake smile. “Full of local color.”
“I enjoy that. In extremely small doses.”
Maggie led him down the street and into Junie’s, where JJ raised an eyebrow when they entered together. She steered Charbonnet toward the restaurant owner. “JJ, this is Philip Charbonnet. He’s the brother-in-law of our late guest, Steve Harmon.”
She placed a hint of emphasis on the last sentence, and JJ’s eyebrow went down. “Ah,” he said. “Welcome to Junie’s, sir. And please accept my condolences.”
JJ extended a manicured hand to the visitor. Charbonnet eyed it with distaste but gave it a light shake. “Thank you. I’ll take a bourbon, neat. Magnolia?”
“The same, thank you.” Maggie scouted the restaurant and spotted an isolated table in a dark corner. “Let’s sit there,” she told Charbonnet, who followed her to it. JJ brought them their drinks, and Maggie’s ersatz date handed the proprietor a credit card without even looking at him.
“What brings you back to Pelican?” Maggie asked. “Do the police have any new information on your brother-in-law’s murder?” She knew pretty much all the information Pelican PD had, thanks to Bo and Rufus, but it seemed like a good conversation starter.
“Sadly, progress is slow, but that’s to be expected from a small-town police force. I assume we’ll have to bring in the FBI.” Charbonnet seemed in no hurry to do so. “I was actually in the area meeting with the staff at Belle Vista to assure them their jobs were safe. For the moment. But more importantly, I wanted to see you.”
“Me?” Maggie found this discomfiting.
“Yes. Your parents told me you were at some dance class, so I waited outside until you were done. I assume you’ll be sharing your conversation with our art adviser with local authorities. One wouldn’t want to withhold information in a murder investigation.”
Charbonnet hadn’t mentioned overhearing Maggie’s argument with Chris when she first brought up Harmon’s murder. He tossed it in unexpectedly, hoping to throw her off guard for some reason. “Why were you looking for me?” she deflected.
Charbonnet took a sip of his drink, savored it, and then swallowed. “I’ve been thinking about you since we met.” Maggie was about to jump in and dissuade the man of any romantic intentions when he continued, “Your mother’s a Doucet, and your father’s a Crozat. Quite a pedigree.”
“If you care about those things. Which I don’t.”
“Your bloodline is a very impressive collection of Creole and Cajun antecedents, with the exception of that Yankee general and whatever miscegenation produced your cousin Lia’s side of the family.”
Much as she’d love to let loose on the revolting man, Maggie managed to contain herself. “If you’d like to enjoy my company tonight, I’d recommend not insulting my loved ones, especially in such deeply offensive terms.”
Charbonnet held up his hand. “Calm down, chère. I’m not judging, merely stating a fact. I imagine it’s hard to find a bloodline in this state that doesn’t sport a drop of color, including my illustrious family. Which brings me to my point. I noticed one leaf missing from your family tree: Charbonnet.”
Maggie somehow managed to keep herself from gasping with horror at what the boulevardier was intimating. “Well, I guess we’ll have to live with that bare branch.”
“Not necessarily.” Charbonnet flashed a lazy smile of entitlement. Maggie studied him. He was clinging to what was left of his looks like a man holding onto a cliff with one finger as he dangled over a precipice. She had the feeling that his was the kind of decay that would inch along before making a hard turn into total dissipation.
She forced her attention back to the conversation. Charbonnet was pontificating on his family’s ancestral history. “So if we did conjoin in matrimony, the mix of our bloodlines would give us rather a superpower of heritage.”
“Excuse me . . . but are you proposing?”
“I’m presenting an offer that would benefit us both.”
“Ah, so what you’re talking about is less marriage than merger.”
“I assure you that you’ll be impressed by other aspects of a relationship.”
She recoiled, but he smirked and continued. “Despite the fact that it’s the twenty-first century, much of New Orleans’s networking revolves around Mardi Gras krewes like Rex and Comus. I’m fortunate enough to belong to several of these organizations, but without offspring, the Charbonnet name can only get me so far. During the season, there are dozens of parties a week, yet I only receive a few courtesy invitations. This week alone, I received only one token invite. A child with Charbonnet-Doucet-Crozat lineage would instantly bump me up the social ladder. And you with me, needless to say.”
“So you’re suggesting we marry and reproduce.”
“Yes. And as quickly as possible.”
“Mr. Charbonnet,” Maggie said, choosing her words carefully and speaking slowly to prevent exploding with rage, “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume your repugnant fantasies are unintentionally insulting. But I’ve put up with them long enough. There’s no way on earth, in the universe, in the solar system, in this or any other galaxy, I would ever consider ‘conjoining’ with you. I have negative infinity interest in you and your ‘bloodline,’ and I don’t appreciate being evaluated like a shar-pei at a dog show. I’m thrilled to say I have a boyfriend who I’m very much in love with. And by the way,” she couldn’t resist adding, “he’s a Durand.”
“Ah, so it is important to you after all. One can only rationalize so much, can one?” Maggie fumed, mad at herself for allowing the reprobate the last word. “Well, I had to float a trial balloon. Now that it’s been popped, we can move on to my alternate topic. Stay away from my family. I see how you look at Dan and Emme—as if hearts and songbirds are swirling around their heads. He’s a felon, and she’s a Charbonnet. Even if he hadn’t spent time in the big house, as they call it, it’s a match I will personally doom.”
“Goodness, if you can do that, you certainly don’t need my ‘bloodline’ for superpowers,” Maggie said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Your sister Emme is a strong woman who can make her own decisions.”
“Let’s hope they’re the right ones. And if she happens to get in touch with you because she bumps up against a spate of indecision, I’d advise you to cut the conversation short.”
“Or?”
Charbonnet, now distracted by a text, didn’t respond. “Oh, my God,” he murmured.
He seemed genuinely distressed, and Maggie was taken aback by the man’s sudden vulnerability. “What’s wrong?”
He ran his hands through the hair receding from his forehead. “I need to get back to Belle Vista immediately.” He pushed back his chair and got up so fast, he lost his balance. Maggie reached out to help him, but he grabbed the edge of the table and steadied himself. “My apologies,” he said and hurried out the front door, pushing past JJ on his way out.
“What was that?” JJ asked.
“No idea,” Maggie said. “He turned into an almost-human being and left most of his drink. I have a feeling neither of those things happens too often.”
“He also left his credit card.” JJ held it up. “Which, bee-tee-dubs, was declined.”
“Why am I not surprised? No worries, JJ, I’ll pick up the tab.”
“You most certainly won’t. But what do I do with this?” JJ waved the card around. “The only thing it’s good for right now is jimmying open a door, but it’s not my place to cut it up.”
“I’ll run it up to BV for him,” Maggie said, taking the card. “It’ll give me an excuse to see what’s going on over there.” A sudden scream of police sirens drowned out their conversation. The sirens faded in volume but remained constant as the squad cars headed away from the village center. “And if those s
irens are any indication, it’s pretty serious.”
*
Maggie arrived at Belle Vista to find squad cars, an ambulance, and the dreaded coroner’s van blocking the resort’s driveway. She parked on the side of the road and, as she headed to the main house, saw guests and staff members huddling together on the front lawn. Some guests looked shocked, others merely curious. Several staffers were fighting to control their emotions and remain professional. She approached a guest in Bermuda shorts who was using the evacuation as a chance to have a cigarette. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Somebody died,” he said, then blew out a few smoke rings.
“Who?”
“Don’t know. Someone who worked here. But it must be hinky if all these cops are here.”
Maggie’s stomach lurched. Harrison. She looked around for a familiar face and saw the maître d’ from her lunch with Bea at the café. “Thank you,” she told the smoker and hurried over to the maître d’. “Hi,” she began, “I don’t know if you remember me—”
“Yes, you’re Ms. Boxler’s friend.” The man took her hands and held them tightly. His eyes filled with tears. “I am so terribly sorry.”
Maggie was bewildered. “For what?”
“Oh, you don’t know what’s happened.” Distressed, the man squeezed her hands tighter. “It’s Bea. Ms. Boxler. She committed suicide.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Maggie was dumbstruck. “Suicide?”
“Yes. It’s a total shock to everyone. We have a wedding booked for New Year’s Eve, and I went over the menu with her only a few hours ago. She’d been invited to attend as a guest as well, and she showed me a picture of her dress. I’ve been talking to other staffers, and not one of us saw a hint of depression. But you never really know what’s going on with people, do you?”
“No, you don’t.”
The maître d’ wandered off to commiserate with his fellow employees. Maggie stood by herself, still in shock. Had her vaunted visual acuity failed her? Had she missed anything that indicated a state of despair? If so, the guilt would haunt her. Sayfrid Gerner had killed herself. Now the daughter had followed her mother’s lead. Maggie replayed every interaction she’d had with Bea in her mind, searching for a clue to the woman’s mental state. Not one moment pointed to Bea taking her own life.